


Two AM Knows All My Secrets

by KeeperOfTheMoonAndStars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (but not like that), Gen, Missing Scene, Pining Sherlock, Post-The Sign of Three, Series 3, Unrequited Love, what happened during that month John didn't see Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperOfTheMoonAndStars/pseuds/KeeperOfTheMoonAndStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock haven't spoken in a month, and it seems they've forgotten how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two AM Knows All My Secrets

At two AM, the cigarettes come quick and easy. One after the other, light, inhale, exhale, try to see the city lights from behind the veil of smoke. Mrs. Hudson never likes him smoking indoors, and John never likes him smoking, period. But Mrs. Hudson is more asleep than she’s been in days, after finally resorting to her herbal soothers. And John. Well, he doesn’t know about John. John could be shagging Mary at this very moment, but that’s something he prefers not the think about. The smoking seems to prevent the thinking, and nobody is here to tell him off. So he continues smoking in complete darkness, the only light being a glowing orange pinprick at the tip of his cigarette.

At two AM, Sherlock’s thoughts start to wonder. He exits the front door of his mind palace, locking it behind him, heading down the front stairs and out into the street. Behind him, the windows are filled with ink and the rooms within haven’t seen life, known warmth, in almost a month. The cold outside doesn’t startle him, as he’s acclimatized to it by now. He doesn’t lift an arm for a taxi. Instead, he finds himself trekking on foot, engulfed in a cloud of smoke, operating entirely on autopilot. He knows where he’s going, despite the fact that he’s never been. It’s an address that’s tattooed across his eyelids, and try as he might, he can’t find anybody willing to remove it. He will know when he sees it; the golden lights in the windows and the warmth radiating from within will give it away, all domesticity and happiness. There will be lacy curtains, biscuits on a plate and a kettle on the stovetop, and the furniture will be lightly scented of Claire de la Lune, a subtle marking of territory. And beneath it, almost buried in it, will be oatmeal jumpers and a steady finger on the trigger, the faint echoes of laughter at a crime scene. Something heavy settles over his shoulders and constricts around his heart.

At two AM, Sherlock makes his way across town to stand outside John’s house and gaze at the windows, all of them locked tight against his entrance, unable to deduce which one John might be behind. He flicks ash onto the pavement, then takes another breath, long and drawn-out. The smoke fills his lungs like liquid tar, heavy and thick and unpleasant, and he chokes on it. For a moment, John’s disapproving gaze flickers before his eyes, because he promised to quit and the slipper was empty, but it, too, disappears behind a haze of gray air. Giving up on the cigarette, he crushes it beneath his bare heel. He wonders if John will see it on his way to work in the morning and think of him.

At two AM, Sherlock wonders if John even thinks of him at all anymore.

At two AM, John is-and always has been-all that occupies Sherlock’s mind. Now he finds that he must leave his mind palace to find the man who used to be the centerpiece of every room.

And never in his life has he been quite so terrified.

His feet are numb on the pavement as he makes his way down the street, and for a moment, he considers leaving the sash of his dressing gown tied to the gate. As he runs the silk between his fingers, he realizes it’s too late. He’s already almost to the doorstep of his mind palace, and can’t seem to remember just how to get back to John. It’s a distant memory, blown away with the last exhale of smoke, crushed under his foot with the butt of the cigarette, unconsciously deleted out of self-preservation. Perhaps he should’ve left a trail of breadcrumbs and ash when he had the chance.

\---

John jolts awake, jerking his hand away from Mary’s, blood pounding in his ears. He gasps for air, sucking in a shaking lungful and holding it there, forcing his body to still. A glance at Mary shows that she’s still sound asleep, eyelids twitching, completely unaffected by his dreams. Typical. At this point in their relationship, she’s learned to sleep through whatever convulsive fits his body throws while his mind is elsewhere. He exhales through his nose, collapsing a bit in its wake. His heart still feels like it’s attempting to slam out of his chest, but the rest of his body has calmed considerably, because he knows that dream was a lie.

But it was... _different,_ he realizes. Different than the other dreams he’s been having, the night visions that plague him. These past few nights, he’d dreamt of the game and the thrill of the chase and the blood pumping in his veins. He’d dreamt of that electric, adrenaline-fueled connection that zapped along their bodies like live wires just after chasing down criminals, when their eyes met over the solution to a puzzle, when Sherlock was being an utter ass but John laughed anyway. Those dreams were something of a refuge. This was not.

This was the very real nightmare he lived for two years, his only constant companion for months on end, wrapped around him like a cloak, clinging to him like fog, following him like a distant, looming shadow.

A shadow with a flapping coat and wind-blown curls.

For the first time since he’s met Mary, John dreamed of Sherlock’s fall.

 _It’s a funny thing_ , he thinks, digging into his eyes with the flats of his palms, _how something you know to be fake can still strike such terror into your heart_. Sherlock’s one massive, nigh-unforgivable lie still haunts John’s truths, though he hasn’t thought of it in months. But just then, in his sleep, he was once again standing on the pavement, reaching his hand across an insurmountable distance, a volatile cocktail of emotions choking him as the one person he really had in the world plummeted from the roof of St. Bart’s.

It marked the start of two long years without Sherlock, and he found himself once again without light in the all-encompassing darkness.

Then there was Mary, a little candle flame that had blossomed into something more resembling an hearth, warm and comforting and welcome, homey in her own special way, though still not enough to chase out the damp. Then Sherlock returned, and after the initial foundation-shaking revelation that his misery had been truth but the cause of it had been a lie, John had built up the walls around the hearth and made himself a home.

He wonders what it means that now, several months into his marriage, lying beside the woman he loves, he’s dreaming of losing Sherlock again.

The clock next to their bed says two AM, and that is no decent time for philosophizing, but John is awake anyway. So he swings out of bed, figures he might as well put the kettle on instead of stewing in his own silence and hoping the change in his rhythmic breathing doesn’t awaken Mary.

In the kitchen, though, he finds himself staring into space with an empty kettle in hand, frozen in the middle of the floor, eyes fixed on the calendar pegged to the wall.

He hasn’t seen Sherlock in over a month.

Over a month, it’s been too long, how is that possible? Is that even right? Yes, it’s right, they wrapped up a small case involving a stolen brooch exactly thirty eight days ago, he remembers because he’s the one who dated the paperwork that Sherlock forgot (refused) to fill out.

Over a month. _Jesus Christ._

The kettle almost goes smashing to the ground, but he comes to his senses quickly enough to tighten his grip again, and sets it on the counter and wanders into the sitting room. No wonder he’s been dreaming of Sherlock. A month of near-smothering domesticity, of Mary not even noticing his dreams of battlefields both foreign and familiar. A month of playing Doctor and Husband, making tea and buying groceries and knowing exactly what is coming the next day, the next _week_. Routine enough to be comforting, comforting enough to drive him mad.

_And I promised him nothing would change._

His heart starts rapid-firing again, his brain clinging to the shredded coattails of his dream and weaving them into the fabric of his current life. He sees a future here with Mary, days bleeding in to each other and his passion bleeding out, going stir-crazy from lack of stimulation because Mary is nice but sometimes he bloody detests _nice_ and just needs to shoot something. He sees a future with Sherlock fading away from him, blow into the ether, Baker Street locked from the inside and he no longer has a key. He sees himself forfeiting the game, Sherlock’s snide remarks that cannot hide the sadness, his crystal eyes on the verge of shattering. He doesn’t know much about Sherlock’s past life, apart from the drugs, but he sees that he’s the negative of it when Lestrade fixes him with that incredulous smile, thankful for favors John had no idea has was doing. Far be it from John to overestimate his importance in anyone’s life, but for a moment he fears for Sherlock, that the crazy bastard might actually throw himself off a roof for real this time, no strings attached.

And John can’t have that. The first time shattered him, but Mary somehow managed to find the pieces and put them together again. A second time would simply hollow him out.

A month. It’s been a month, and not a word has been exchanged between them. _God, I’m already losing him._

Before John can really think what he’s doing, he’s fishing his mobile phone from the pocket of his coat in the hall closet and has pulled up Sherlock’s number.

_It’s two AM,_ he thinks, and punches ‘call’ anyway.

\---

Sherlock cannot, w _ill not,_ sleep. He keeps his eyes stretched as open as they can be, and the fact that the darkness behind his eyelids is the same as the darkness within the flat helps with this a great deal. He should sleep, he knows. Perhaps it will take the panicky edge off this night sickness, because he hasn’t had a case in _days_ , and the ones he has had have been absolutely _mundane_ , hatefully ordinary even in the faint moonlight. There was a man murdered by his wife’s jealous lover (obvious), a daughter who was kidnapped (a fake ransom note and an empty bank account later, she had been living happily in the Caribbean until Sherlock found her, so boring), and a mysterious body drug from the Thames. Actually, that last one had been somewhat interesting, but it had a distinct lack of John, and therefore, what was the point? There was nobody to astound with his blazing brilliance, nobody with whom to share the high of a deduction, nobody who understood why his eyes were so bright despite the fact (or rather, because of it) that he’d almost been shot. It had just been empty and routine. Un-extraordinary and unremarkable in every way.

If there was no John in a case, there was no joy in a case.

And that was new information, something Sherlock hadn’t seen coming, because he didn’t remember it being like this before. Before he had John. Cases had always been a relief, a thrill, an escape from the pounding normalness all around him, the constant flood of nothing that hummed in every corner of his brain. But then there had been two lonely years, a void filled only with echoes of John and the sunlight-and-stardust promise of seeing him again. He’d fully expected to have that again when he returned, to fall back into their synchronous rhythm, two people so totally opposite that every rest in their music was filled by the other’s shining solo, two musical pieces lovely on their own but even better when accompanied by each other. Sherlock had grown used to that, longed for it, even.

But his piece was being played by somebody else, someone who missed some of the vital notes and didn’t quite play in time with John. But John seemed to like it, and Sherlock had left it alone.

Only to find _himself_ alone.

Which is precisely why he cannot sleep. The cigarettes are gone, leaving only the stale scent of smoke and vague displeasure in their wake, and Sherlock cannot sleep. Because if he sleeps, then he might see John. He might see John, and his heart will swell and his music will start, and John will gripe at him because there are body parts in the fridge and he poisoned the milk again, but he will also call Sherlock amazing and wonderful and the wisest man he’s ever known. The flat will have life again, a heartbeat other than his own, and it will not echo so much with the depths of Sherlock’s loneliness. Then Sherlock will wake up, and his swollen heart will choke him, and his own music will deafen him, and the flat will seem paradoxically emptier for the imagining of another being than it did before. And John will be somewhere else, entirely too wrapped up in Mary and his own life to care.

And Sherlock cannot sleep for precisely the opposite of this reason. If he sleeps, he might _not_ see John. Even unconsciousness might offer no relief from the black hole inside him, the silence that’s too loud to bear, the empty stomach that is devouring him whole. He could wake up from that nightmare only to find that this void is his reality, his life, and he will be falling into it for the entirety of the foreseeable future.  He is not sure which is worse, and he has no desire to find out.

The agonizing knife in his side is not any of this, though. It is the fact that John prefers it this way. John is happy without him, and Sherlock is utterly miserable. John does not realize just what Sherlock is willing to sacrifice to keep him happy, and Sherlock thought that two years and countless scars would have been proof enough, but John still hates. John forgave him, yes, but he still hates Sherlock just enough to leave.

Sherlock sacrificed all he had and won, just to return and realize that what he had was not even his to sacrifice.

He is considering pinching some of Mrs. Hudson’s herbal soothers (they’re under one of the coffee mugs in her cabinet, the blue-and-white striped one, she always stores them upside down so nothing gets in them but that’s the only one he’s never seen used, not even when she serves Sherlock tea, because she always avoids giving him favorites in case he throws them in a fit of stupor but if it were a favorite he would’ve seen her use it, and she always insists on making tea for her guests, so nobody would accidentally stumble across it) when his phone rings.

Sherlock stares at it where it sits on the coffee table, blue-white light like a comet in the ink of the room. There are only five preset numbers in the phone: Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, John. Of course, it could always be a client calling, but he closes his eyes momentarily and makes a wish because that’s the ludicrous thing normal humans do when they see a shooting star. It rings a second time, and he’s certain he’s not hallucinating, so he leans forward just a bit, just enough to see the contact name on the screen.

 _John_.

He picks the phone up in a flurry of happy panic.

_It’s two AM, what can John possibly want from me?_ he thinks absently, then he realizes it really doesn’t matter, and presses ‘answer’ anyway.

\---

“John,”

Sherlock’s baritone startles John just a bit. It’s deeper than he remembers, but maybe that’s just a side-effect of the hour and the darkness outside.

“Sherlock, hi, sorry.” He’s apologizing already. Why is he apologizing? “Sorry, I know it’s late, er, early, but...” But what? Why is he calling? He doesn’t know, just be polite. “Did I wake you?” He winces. Politeness towards Sherlock? No, that’s off, awkward, stilted.

A soft chuckle on the other end, and John smiles faintly in response.

“No, I wasn’t sleeping.” Of course not. Has the man slept at all in the past few days, or has he forgotten it, deemed it unimportant without John’s reprimands? No, he’s probably fine. Sherlock is a grown man, he can function (somewhat) normally without John’s help.

“What are you doing up at this hour, then?” No, he knows the answer to that question. He remembers late nights, rubbing sleep from his eyes before finally giving up and retreating to bed, leaving Sherlock standing on the coffee table, staring at papers tacked on the wall.

“Thinking,” they say it simultaneously, and John laughs. Still the same Sherlock. Of course, it’s John who has moved on.

“What about you?” Sherlock asks, and John thinks he can hear his smile.

“Sorry?”

A sigh. “You are the one who called me, John. What are you doing up at two AM?”

Right, yes. That. Why was he calling his old flatmate in the drunken hours of the morning? _Well, I had a nightmare that you’d died, and then I remembered you were very much alive, but then I thought maybe it was my subconscious telling me that I am losing you again._ That won’t do. Sentiment. “Can’t you deduce it?”

Wait, no, not that. He’s fairly certain that Sherlock deducing his dreams and dissatisfaction would be even more mortifying than telling the man himself. But, _God_ , how he wants to hear a deduction, the deep rambling brilliance and the details he has no right to know.

A moment of silence on Sherlock’s end. Then, “I don’t know, John.”

He doesn’t know. The great Sherlock Holmes isn’t even going to try to figure out why. Of course not, because this is _sentiment,_ and Sherlock doesn’t do _sentiment_. Hell, he probably doesn’t even miss John, doesn’t think about him at all, just carries on with his cases and talks to the skull. Sherlock is probably fine, happy, even. He’s moved on and John is the one left behind. Again. Business as usual. What is John doing? What made him think this would be a good idea?

But there’s something about the darkness, the way London’s lights block out the stars, the slowly pulsing atmosphere that settles over the city when no decent person is awake, the mysterious and confused lives of thousands of souls wandering the streets, and it lulls John, entrances him.

“I just wanted to hear your voice.” Soft, quiet, slightly ashamed.

“Oh,” Not the sound of pieces falling into place, but rather a soft, startled hush, hardly even a breath.

Neither of them say anything for a very long time, and John can feel it growing, swelling, twisting. He wants to say something, throw out ‘you’re fantastic’ or ‘that was amazing,’ but it would be unsolicited and would probably just make him seem drunk. To be clear, he _is_ drunk, but it’s memories and moonlight that loosen his tongue, not alcohol.

“That’s a bit ridiculous, John. It’s only been thirty eight days, and at this age, a man’s voice has mostly ceased changing. Any difference wouldn’t be discernable to the human ear, anyway, and-“

John cuts him off with a laugh, an honest one. “Yes, you still sound the same. Got any cases on?” _Please say yes, please launch into a complicated explanation of a murder that I can hardly begin to understand, please insist that I come chase a criminal across rooftops with you if convenient, and if inconvenient, come anyway, because London’s ghosts need to be caught and a soldier is good at shooting through the fog._

Hesitation. “N-no, actually. Haven’t for a while.”

“Oh. Right, then. You holding up?”

“Yes.”

Does he believe that? No, not really. But Sherlock’s one-syllable response says it all; _he doesn’t need you, old man. He’s busy rushing around London in that great bloody coat, probably has half the homeless network doing twice what you were ever capable of. Just let him go, John. You never did anything other than slow him down._ He’s almost ashamed of himself, really. He should be happy with this, with his wife and his practice and his new home, with the life he chose. He left all the rest of it-the adrenaline and insanity and being strapped to a bomb and practically worshiping a man who thinks he’s a god-behind at Baker Street, packed up in the boxes that are shoved under the bed in his old room. Sherlock never needed him, not even to help pay the rent. He was just a stand-in for the skull. _Let him be, Watson. The two of you are parting ways._

“Alright, well...I suppose I’d better go. Mary’s, um, she’s...”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“...are you alright?”

“Yeah, fine, I’m fine, everything’s...fine. Sorry for, for waking you. Er, disturbing you.”

“You didn’t disturb me, John.”

“Right, that’s good. See you around, then, yeah?”

“Yes,”

“Alright. Um. Night.”

“Mmm,”

John makes no move to end the call. He just waits, listening for the inevitable click that will end the conversation. Maybe he’ll go back to sleep, forget about it in the morning, think it was just another dream.

But the click doesn’t come, and he can still hear the gentle rustle of breathing on the other end of the line.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Is there...is there something else?”

_Yes, John, come back to Baker Street and solve crimes with me, I’m nowhere near the man I was when you were by my side._

“No. Goodnight, John.”

This time, there is a click.

It’s the only honest part of the entire conversation.

\---

“John,” _Hello, John._

“Sherlock, hi, sorry.” _Why are you sorry? Don’t be sorry. If anything, I’m the one who should be sorry. Sorry for not...well, sooner. I should’ve, I didn’t, and I’m sorry._ “Sorry, I know it’s late, er, early, but...” _It’s two AM but it might as well be three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon. I don’t care what time it is, John, just talk to me._ “Did I wake you?”

_Wake me? No, of course not. I hardly ever sleep, you know that.  Or have you forgotten? Even when you were here, I didn’t sleep, not unless you nagged me about it, and now that you’re not I really have no reason to sleep at all, in fact, I’m afraid to sleep. Can’t sleep, won’t sleep. I think I dozed off at the table earlier today but I’m not really sure because there was nobody here to put a blanket over my shoulders. If only you knew._

“No, I wasn’t sleeping.”

“What were you doing up at this hour, then?”

 _Trying not to think about you, trying not to think about anything_ other _than you._

“Thinking,” _Oh, you said that at the same time as me, and you’re laughing, God, I miss your laugh. Please keep laughing, John, don’t ever stop, it makes me warm and it’s so very cold here._ “What about you?”

“Sorry?”

 _What about you? Why are you awake this early? Were you thinking of me? Did it make you scared of sleeping? Were you walking through your own mind palace, looking for me? Maybe you couldn’t find me, like I couldn’t find you, so you called me instead. Stupid. Why didn’t I think of that?_ “You are the one who called me, John. What are you doing up at two AM?”

_What aren’t you saying, John? Why are you so silent?_

“Can’t you deduce it?”

 _Deduce it? Yes, I can do that, if you promise to call me amazing, if you come back here and stand by my side and look at me like I’m the eighth wonder of the world. You were probably asleep, judging by the rough quality of your voice, but something woke you up. A dream, probably. But not of Afghanistan, because the sands haven’t blown through your mind in ages and why would that make you think of me? Besides, when you dream of war, you have Mary there to comfort you. So this is something else, something you can’t talk to her about, something more personal, something she wouldn’t understand. You dreamt of..._ oh. _But I can’t say that, can I. Hinting at that would be a bit not good, especially if it isn’t true. I hope it’s true, and I’m sorry for the pain it causes you. Maybe if you were here, you wouldn’t dream of it anymore. Can’t say that either. What do I say?_ “I don’t know, John.” _I really don’t know. I’m not used to not knowing. I always used to know when you were here._

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh,” _Yes, I wanted to hear yours, too. I’m scared I’ll forget it, and I’ve been playing it over and over in my mind palace, but I might wear the records out, and the real thing sounds far less tinny. Do you like my voice? Do you miss it, even though the sound of my words weren’t always the kindest? I miss your voice, John. I miss all of you. But why would you miss my voice? You have Mary now, hers is far more melodic._ “That’s a bit ridiculous, John. It’s only been thirty eight days, and at this age, a man’s voice has mostly ceased changing. Any difference wouldn’t be discernable to the human ear, anyway, and-‘’ _oh, you’re laughing again. Good. I think._

“Yes, you still sound the same. Got any cases on?”

“N-‘’ _Why are you asking? Do you want to know about them? I could talk for hours about my cases, as I’m sure you remember. Do you remember? Why would even want to know? You have a job, a real job, and you aren’t willing to drop everything and come chasing after me anymore, you told me as much thirty-eight days ago. You don’t really want me to bore you with details of cases, things you never really understood anyway, although you did try. You’re just being polite. Oh, John. You never have to be polite with me._ “No, actually. Haven’t for a while.”

“Oh. Right, then. You holding up?”

 _No, my mind palace is crumbling. It’s empty and cold and dark, here, John, and I can’t escape it. The windows are stuck shut and the foundation is cracked and my wallpaper is peeling, and all the rooms are dusty because you aren’t here to remind me to clean them. I smoked six cigarettes tonight, and I considered taking drugs. Am I holding up?_ “Yes.” _I can’t bother you with those things. You wouldn’t want to know, anyway._

“Alright, well...I suppose I’d better go. Mary’s, um, she’s...”

_No! No, no, please don’t go. Mary doesn’t need you like I do. She doesn’t even know who you are, not really. I do. I know all of you. And I like your jumpers._

“John?” _I should stop saying your name. But I can’t get enough of it, because when I say it here, there’s never an answer._

“Yes?”  

“...are you alright?” _You don’t sound alright. You can tell me, you know. I could take you out on a case, make you forget about your limp again. I did it the first time. Remember? How surprised you were when Angelo handed you your cane, and you looked at me with incredulous eyes, like I was a miracle. You can tell me if you’re not alright, John Watson. Because God knows I’m not, either._

“Yeah, fine, I’m fine, everything’s...fine.”

_Of course it is. You have Mary now, and that’s the life you’ve chosen. Why wouldn’t you be fine?_

“Sorry for, for waking you. Er, disturbing you.”

“You didn’t disturb me, John.” _You never disturbed me._

“Right, that’s good. See you around, then, yeah?”

_Is that a promise?_

“Yes,”

“Alright. Um. Night.”

“Mmm,”

_You should know, John, that you’re going to have to be the one who ends this call. I won’t be able to. I would be content to sit here and listen to this silence, and the soft static of your breathing, and the ringing of all that we’re not saying. I could listen to you not speak for hours._

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Is there...is there something else?”

_I miss you._

_I haven’t eaten in three days._

_It’s too quiet here in the mornings without you._

_I haven’t slept through the night since you left._

_Actually, it’s_ always _too quiet here without you._

_I had to move your chair because the sight of it empty made me empty inside._

_The fact that you’re happy without me is slowly killing me._

_I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again, because I think I might die soon._

_I keep expecting to hear “fantastic” while on cases, but all I hear is the static in the stars._

_I think I might love you._

_Please come back._

“No. Goodnight, John.”

The click of the call ending is all that keeps him from blurting it out, all that keeps him from bringing it all crashing down. Because John is happy, and he is not, and when two things are opposites, it is impossible for both to be right, and people often say things in the shelter of darkness that cannot be taken back, because it is easier to ignore something when it cannot be seen, and when you are distracted by the monsters under the bed.

He reaches in the pocket of his dressing gown and finds another cigarette. Lights it. Inhales.

The clock on his phone screen reads two fifteen AM.


End file.
